


The Bentley Takes a Holiday

by GiggleSnortBangDead



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Homophobia, Established Relationship, M/M, Sentient Bentley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Unfortunately Today Was Aziraphale's Turn with the Brain Cell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:00:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25055068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GiggleSnortBangDead/pseuds/GiggleSnortBangDead
Summary: Unable to use the Bentley, Crowley must navigate public transportation.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 89





	The Bentley Takes a Holiday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pinafortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinafortuna/gifts).



> This is a birthday present for [pinafortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinafortuna)! It is almost a week late, whoops. Also she gave me no direction as to what she wanted, so this is what she gets! Either way I hope everyone gets a kick out of this!

Crowley and Aziraphale had planned a picnic. Or rather, at the beginning of summer, Aziraphale had decided they ought to have a biweekly Sunday picnic and Crowley couldn’t think of any reason to object. 

Picnics got them out of the cottage, and something about the setting made Aziraphale act like he’d never seen trees or grass or the sky and was in complete awe of them. Bit by bit, Crowley had realized that sometimes Aziraphale saw him like that: new and splendid. So, if Aziraphale wanted to go for a little country drive and then eat finger sandwiches on the dirt, Crowley would pack the basket. 

The morning of, he was about to drive to town for some of the water crackers that Aziraphale liked which they had accidentally run out of the night previous. He hadn’t even put the key in the ignition when the Bentley started up, its radio blaring: _I want to break free_. 

“Yeah, yeah, we’re going on a drive now.” Crowley turned the key and stepped on the gas. The Bentley stayed put, and the song changed abruptly. _I’m going slightly mad_ , the radio said. 

“Argh,” Crowley groaned. “Not now.” 

_Stone cold crazy_ , the Bentley explained. 

“Can’t you wait til tomorrow?” Crowley snapped, feeling a little frantic. “He wouldn’t stop talking about this all last night.” He tried to shift the car into gear himself, but they stayed stationary. 

_Dont. Stop. Me. Now._

“Fine!” Crowley stepped out of the car and slammed the door. “Happy?” 

_Keep yourself alive,_ the Bentley said, one of the headlights flickering in what was surely supposed to be a wink. The car revved up and took off on its own, “We are the Champions” starting to blast out of its rolled down windows. 

Crowley tried not to dwell on this. The Bentley didn’t take many vacations, but usually they were scheduled during one of Crowley’s longer naps. Apparently the country air had scrambled the Bentley’s motor, and Crowley was still babying the car after the whole driving through fire (and getting destroyed) ordeal. 

He popped his head into the cottage. “It might take a little longer to go to town than I thought, but I’ll be back in an hour or two.” 

Aziraphale bustled into view, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He’d been preparing nibbles and selecting wine, no doubt. Crowley managed to draw his gaze from Aziraphale’s arms to his face and saw that he looked concerned. “Is everything all right?”

“Mh. Yeah. The Bentley took off.” 

“What does that mean?” Aziraphale frowned. “Took off?” 

“Yeah.” Crowley shrugged. ‘Back by next week, I’m sure.” 

“Your car?” Aziraphale clarified, eyebrows drawing. 

“I’ll grab the bus into town.” Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the doorframe, just to remind Aziraphale that he _was_ cool, even if he sometimes didn’t have a car. “The bus stop’s, what? A fifteen minute walk?” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale glanced at the wall clock, “But the bus only comes — ”

“It’ll come, don’t worry, angel. You recite the bus schedule in your sleep sometimes. Really, I don’t know what you’re dreaming about. But I’ve got the thing damn near memorized at this point. I’ll be back before you know it. We’ll have to picnic close to home, but there’s that spot in the woods you like. That, uhh, clearing thing.” 

“Oh, do you have to go now?” Aziraphale clasped his hands tightly to keep them from strangling each other. “It’s just I heard that the weather is supposed to get drizzly around 3:00.” 

That was part of what Aziraphale had been talking about last night, why he’d wanted to leave earlier and why he’d thought it might be best to drive a few towns over where the weather would be calmer. 

“Do you want to skip dessert? I had the baker girl whip up something special, but I’m sure it’ll hold for tomorrow.” Crowley knew this was unfair, because Aziraphale never willingly skipped any part of the dining experience, especially one curated by Crowley who so often had no interest in food at all. “Promise: I’ll be back by 1:00, and we’ll have plenty of time to, you know, do our thing in the woods.” 

Aziraphale snorted. “You make it sound so sordid.” Aziraphale would undoubtedly use words like _romp_ or _frolic_ : nice words for what was essentially a shag and a cuddle on a thin, checkered blanket. He sighed. “I suppose you must go." He perked up. “But why not use Looper?” 

Crowley wracked his brain for what that might mean.

“Looper!” Aziraphale said again, like that would help. “You tell your mobile phone where you are and when you’d like to go, and then someone will drive you. Like a taxi? I’d say just call a cab, but out here that might take hours.” 

“Yeah, so would _Uber_ ,” Crowley said, although for good measure he did check his app to see if there were any available drivers in their area. There weren’t. 

“Drat.” Aziraphale frowned. “Well, go catch your bus. I’ll have things prepared when you come back. And don’t forget the water biscuits! I might have gone overboard with the mascarpone last night, but I refuse to eat brie off whole grain wheat crackers.” 

“Sure, sure,” Crowley said. “Back in no time,” and he stepped out, walking down their dirt driveway to the main country road.

* * *

The walk to the bus stop was fine. It was warm with a mild breeze, and the sky was cloudy enough that everything looked sufficiently gloomy. There was only one bus route in the area, going down the countryside with a stop by the nearest town.

Crowley only really knew because Aziraphale had taken the bus into town a once or twice and always came back with a story of how wonderful the busdriver had been or the names and itineraries of the German tourists he met. That, and Aziraphale’s fevered recitations of the weekly schedule the few times Crowley had tempted him into a nap. 

He made it to the stop in under 15 minutes and, not seeing a bench, slumped against the metal signpost, squinting down the road for any sign of the bus. He swiped through his phone to pass the time.

* * *

He played a game on his phone to pass the time.

* * *

Over ten whole minutes had passed. He checked his clock: 11:35. That was seven minutes after the scheduled departure time. 

Pulling up the bus schedule on his phone, he scrolled to his stop. He grew increasingly frustrated studying the timetable, because the bus really should have come! He scrolled a little further down to see if there was some disclaimer or explanation, and he reached a second timetable. 

“ _Sunday Service Schedule_ ,” he read aloud. His face grew hot. He scrolled to his stop and had to look away from his phone, cursing. He nearly chucked his mobile, but he still had to double check to make sure he’d read it right. 

Sunday. South Stop to Haslemere. 11:23 AM.

Crowley had missed the bus. And there wouldn’t be another for over an hour. 

If Crowley hoofed it to town, even catching the bus back would get him home after 2:00. And waiting an hour for the bus wasn’t his style, and at that moment he felt so angry with public transportation he thought he might never ride it again. He needed a miracle, which luckily wasn’t too hard for him to come by. 

A charter bus full of 20 US elderhostel attendees, their Londoner guide, and a bus driver who was originally from Kent were on their way to Beachy Head for a day trip. They’d had breakfast 30 kilometers back and lost over an hour to the local gift shop, much to the Londoner’s dismay. Now they were running behind, and there had already been some questions as to when they’d be stopping again and what was for lunch. Crowley did not know any of this but he saw the charter bus and understood it to be his ride. 

He waved to them as they were close to passing, and the driver, for reasons he couldn’t understand, stopped and opened the door. 

“Hey, guys,” Crowley said, looking back at the 20 elderly road scholars. He gave the driver a little nod. “Just down the way there,” he said, pointing casually down the road. The bus started up again. 

“Who are you?” the guide gawped. 

“What’s all this then?” Crowley asked, giving a wink to a lady at the front. Even with the sunglasses on, her husband seemed to notice. 

“Victor, stop the bus,” the Londoner demanded.

“It’s just down there a little ways,” Victor the bus driver said. 

Crowley didn’t sit, leaning against one of the rails. “Yeah,” he said. 

“I have to insist that you get off!” 

“Oh, let the young man ride. It’s going to rain after all.” The smallest and oldest woman on the bus gave Crowley a magnanimous nod. “Young man, where are you going?” 

“Ah, just into town,” Crowley said, shrugging. “Gotta pick a few things up.” 

She nodded, her hands trembling around an especially lurid magazine. “We’re going to the Beachy Dyke.”

“Beachy Head, Nora!” a shrewd looking woman with dyed brown hair snapped. “We’re going to Devil’s Dyke tomorrow morning!” 

Nora waved her shaky hand as if to say it couldn’t matter less to her. “Young man,” Nora said, “We’re hoping to get a spot of lunch. Is there anywhere you can recommend?” 

Crowley pretended to think about it. “I might know a couple of places.” 

“We’re having lunch once we get to our destination!” the guide said. “It’s on the itinerary.” 

“I’m famished,” Nora said, loud enough to wake up her neighbor dozing on the bench behind her. 

“I am too!” he awoke saying. “Starving!” 

“Yeah, if you just wanna drop me in town, I can point a place out to you. As long as this guy,” and Crowley cocked a cool thumb at the stammering guide, “Doesn’t mind.”

He directed them to the pub restaurant, which was closest to the bakery so it all worked out pretty well for him. He got the shortcake, ran by the store for the crackers, and checked the bus schedule. He had 20 minutes before the bus arrived, and it’d get him home a little after 1:00. He made his way to the flower shop down the road from the stop. 

The scruffy, plaid-wearing florist frowned upon seeing him, but did nothing more than watch as Crowley stalked through the store. 

“Fuck you,” he said to some lackluster daisies, although his heart wasn’t quite in it. “You’re lucky this guy’s an amateur.” 

“What did you say?” the florist asked. 

The cash register opened unexpectedly, banging into the guy’s hand. Crowley looked over the ferns and succulents. He scoffed. “Hideous.” 

“Are you actually going to buy something?” the florist asked, gingerly rubbing his hand. “Or are you just going to insult my plants again?” 

“I’m not sure there’s anything worth buying,” Crowley said, although that wasn’t quite true. There was a wildflower bouquet—garden pinks, moss phlox, tree mallows—pre-cut and tied in a big pink bow. It was displayed at the counter, so Crowley made his way over.

“What a shame,” the florist frowned. “You’ll be on your way, then.”

Crowley most certainly didn’t move. “How much for that?” Crowley asked, pointing. 

The florist frowned and eyed him down. Finally he said: “Thirty-five pounds.” 

Crowley recoiled. “Thirty-five—That’s ridiculous!” 

“It’s what it costs.” The florist turned to an unfinished arrangement.

“Twenty-five,” Crowley countered. 

The florist actually laughed. “This isn’t a market. You can’t barter, mate. It’s 35 quid, or you can see yourself out.”

While money wasn’t an issue for Crowley, he knew what highway robbery looked like. He was a demon of principles (on occasion). “The price should be twenty,” he said. “Twenty-five, tops.” 

“Maybe,” the florist said. “But we have an asshole tax.” 

There was a tense quiet, and then Crowley laughed. “All right, yeah.” He handed his credit card over. “Flattery will get you everywhere.” 

“What?” the florist asked, taking the card and just staring at it. 

Happening a glance out the window, Crowley saw his bus going by. He grabbed the bouquet and his bag and sprinted out the door. “Keep the change!” he said. 

“But, your credit card!” 

Crowley dashed down the sidewalk, trying to wave down the bus, which didn’t slow. Just when he was about to force it to stop, he tripped and dropped the bag. Crowley managed to protect the cake from complete destruction, but the person he’d crashed into reel back and stepped on the crackers with a resolute crunch. 

“You,” Crowley said, glowering at the Londoner tour guide. He was almost certain Aziraphale would notice if he miracled the crackers whole, which meant he had to go back to the store. 

“You should watch where you’re going!” the guide said, although he sounded nervous. The sole of his right shoe split with a loud enough rip that he noticed immediately and swore. “These were new,” he whinged. “Damn Primark.” 

Feeling somewhat avenged but mostly mad at himself for missing the bus, Crowley rechecked the schedule. He’d be getting home a little after 2:00 now. He stood and called the cell he’d insisted Aziraphale get, which eventually went to automated voicemail because Aziraphale always left the blessed thing on silent. He tried the house phone next, while he brushed himself off and began slinking back to the grocer. 

After a few rings, Aziraphale said: “ _Hello!_ ”

“Angel, hey—”

“ _You have reached Aziraphale_ — ”

“ _— and Crowley —_ ” he heard his own voice chime. He groaned. 

“ _We are most certainly_ Not _available right now. However, you are most welcome to leave a message, should you so wish. If you leave both your name and your telephone number, we may call you back. Now, Crowley, how do I turn this — ”_

“Yeah, hey, angel,” Crowley said. “It’s, uhh, me. Running late. I figure you’re reading, or something. Dozing in a sunbeam. Mh. Whatever. I’ll be back around 2:00. Uh… See you. I—er, yeah, bye.” 

At the shop, he gave a wave to the cashier, who recognized him and looked confused. He grabbed the crackers and then a couple bags of prawn cocktail crisps, just in case Aziraphale got testy about him being late.

“You went through these pretty fast,” the cashier said as she rang him up, smiling in hopes of a good story. 

Crowley stared at her, mouth tight. 

“Right.” She swallowed. Crowley pulled out his wallet, opened it, and blinked at the spot his credit card was supposed to be. All of his rewards cards were there, but his credit card, which usually knew better than to go missing, was nowhere to be seen. 

“That bloody florist,” he growled, startling the cashier. 

The person behind him in line cleared his throat. It was the Londoner, buying duct tape, no doubt to fix his shoe. “I’ll cover this,” he said, putting on a brave face and pulling out his card. “I mangled your other ones in the first place.”

“Yeah, you did,” Crowley said, although he’d already miracled his credit card back from the flower shop. He tucked his wallet away. “All right, then,” he allowed, stepping aside to let him pay. “Cheers,” he said, taking his bag. 

“Gavin.” They exited the store together.

“Cheers, Gavin,” Crowley repeated and they both stopped. Unsure what else to say or do, Crowley offered him one of the bags of crisps. 

“Thanks.” He took the bag and opened it. Crowley hadn’t expected him to actually do that, so he watched on a little dumbstruck as Gavin ate. “I swear,” he said, mouth full, “I’m gonna put on weight before this trip is over. Never had a group like this.” 

Crowley, not having realized that he’d agreed to continued interaction, felt trapped. “Yeah, well,” he stammered unhelpfully. “They’re not so bad.” 

“We’re not going to have time for our excursions this afternoon.”

“This is sort of an excursion, isn’t it?” Crowley offered, checking his clock. He had 50 minutes until his bus, so he couldn’t say he was running late and dash off. Or at least not without lying. “Listen,” he started. 

“Thanks for the crisps,” Gavin said, “I have to start getting everyone back on the bus.” 

“Oh,” Crowley blinked. “Oh, great.” 

Gavin crumpled the already finished bag and sighed. “I always remember those tasting better than they do.” He looked very sad. He shoved his hands in his pockets.

 _Bugger_ , Crowley thought to himself, and he said: “Hey, seems like the day’s plans are a wash anyway. Let’s grab a pint. Might help you relax some.” 

“Really?” Gavin stared at him.

“Sure. I got time before I have to go. You can tell me all about what these biddies have been up to. All your old folks are at the pub anyway. Have a drink and round them up there. Two birds, one — you know.” 

“Maybe a half pint,” Gabin mumbled.

“Great,” Crowley said, leading the way.

* * *

It turned out to be the right idea to stop for a quick drink, Gavin got a lot off his chest, and the elderhostelers joined them at the bar and seemed very excited to see their guide loosened up. 

Crowley, as he was leaving, got a text message from Aziraphale, saying that it was all right that he was a little late, not to worry, and to get home safely, followed by a series of emojis: bus, house, pine tree, wine, yum face. 

Crowley sent back: **Did a good deed today. You’ll have to do something bad for me to even it out.**

He got to the bus stop and sat down. A few minutes later, Aziraphale texted back. 

**Did you? 🤗 How wonderful! 👏👏👏**

Crowley snorted and sent back the sunglasses emoji. He’d explain sexting some other time. 

Thunder rumbled overhead, and Crowley sat straight up. The sky was it’s usual grey, but he supposed the clouds looked stormier than he’d realized. 

The bus was a little late but it finally came, and Crowley nearly blew it all by giving the bus driver a smile. He remembered himself and settled for a nod as the doors opened. The harried bus driver barely glanced at him, and Crowley froze before he could put in his fare, taking in the chaos. 

There were maybe 45 boy scouts, all of various ages and designations, accompanied by two tired-looking scout masters. 

The doors closed behind him, and he grabbed the railing to steady himself. The children, while not breaking bus protocol by running about or throwing things, were raucous, and there was barely any seating.

Crowley moved to the back, but found that the empty seat he’d spotted wasn’t so empty: someone had dropped their peanut butter and jelly sandwich onto the cushion. Instead of easily brushable crumbs, they had managed to land the sandwich split apart and with both ends facing down. The entire bench was compromised. Crowley, deciding that the overhead handle was fine enough, gazed over the sea of children, trying to sniff out a culprit. They all looked guilty to him.

One of the boys in a front row stood up and darted over to his friend one row back. The bus driver slowed, starting to pull over to the side of the road. 

“I already said you can’t be running on the bus,” she said, glaring into the rearview. 

The elder scoutmaster looked up from his phone and sighed: “Dylan, sit still.” 

_Yeah, Dylan_ , Crowley almost said, checking his clock again, his heart in his throat. 

“Ooh, look!” one of the boys cawed. “Lightning! Maybe it’ll hit the bus!” 

A cub scout, maybe the youngest boy on the bus, began to cry. The second scoutmaster tried to cajole him from a few rows over. “Javed, it’s okay.” 

“Hey,” Crowley said quietly to the boy, because he was closer. “The bus is fine. Don’t listen to that other kid. He’s a knob.” 

Javed sniffled, and the cub scout riding next to him goggled. “Parker’s a knob,” he whispered. Javed wiped his eyes and nodded. 

The boys in the surrounding benches were starting to join in, so the second scoutmaster chimed in an enthusiastic “How about a song!” to which he started signing some vaguely naughty camp ditty, which distracted for maybe 10 seconds. 

“What’s in your bag, mister?” a boy scout asked.

“Items,” Crowley said. 

“Who are the flowers for?” another boy asked. 

“Are they for your girlfriend?” 

“He’s old; it’d have to be his wife.” 

“Actually,” a scout with glasses said, “It would have to be his husband. My da says men who keep their shoes that clean are either homosexuals or politicians or both. And I don’t think he could be a politician.” 

“Are they for your husband or your wife?”

“They’re, uhh, for his da.” Crowley said, gesturing at the scout with glasses. He then thought it through and kicked himself because this wasn’t the audience for _I’m gonna fuck your dad_ humor. The boys laughed anyway, including glasses boy, which was a good sign. 

There was another roar of thunder, closer now, and Javed glanced at him. Crowley gave him a shrug of a smile, but his expression tightened when he glanced outside. It looked cold and grey—rain imminent. 

_Hold on, angel_ , he thought, hands tightening, heart pounding.

* * *

When he got to his stop, it was drizzling. By the time he was halfway up the muddy drive, the rain was full pouring, and Crowley felt absolutely miserable, drenched and cold. What was he going to tell Aziraphale? 

He nearly ran to the door and burst in. 

“Angel, I’m so sorry. I tried to get here quick, but the rain came early and—Oh.” 

All of the furniture of their living room had been pushed aside, leaving space for their red checkered picnic blanket right in front of the hearth. Aziraphale had relocated a few of the potted plants to give an illusion of woodsy surroundings, and he’d already set two wine glasses next to a bottle of red. 

“Oh, darling,” Aziraphale wandered in from the kitchen. “You’re dripping on my floor. You change into something cosy, and I’ll finish getting things ready. Are these for me?” He took the flowers. “Dear, they’re lovely. Thank you, Crowley.” He kissed his cheek. Crowley still hadn’t moved, glancing between the indoor picnic and Aziraphale. "Is it all right?” he asked, face scrunching. “I just thought, with the weather and with the Bentley taking a holiday, we might as well just stay in.” 

“Yeah,” Crowley croaked. 

“Oh, my poor, cold boy. Let’s warm you up. I told you not to worry, didn’t I? In my texting message?” 

“Ngh, yeah,” Crowley let himself be led to their bedroom.

“I do hope you didn’t feel rushed,” Aziraphale hummed. He took the bag from Crowley. “Here, I’ll let you change. Oh!” Aziraphale exclaimed, reaching into the bag. “Prawn crisps! I always forget how much I like these!” 

Crowley filled with warmth, stumbling forward. He put his arms around Aziraphale and held him close. 

“Was the bus that bad?” Aziraphale laughed, but he held him back tightly. 

“Nah, I’m just glad to be home.” Crowley pressed his face against Aziraphale’s broad shoulder. He smelled like lavender and heather and warm vanilla. 

“Don’t think you’re getting out of our picnic just because I owe you a bad turn,” Aziraphale chided, although he cupped Crowley’s arse affectionately. “I knew what you were trying to do in your message, you fiend.” 

Crowley laughed and finally stepped away. “Guilty.” Crowley kissed Aziraphale, or Aziraphale kissed him. It didn’t matter. They kissed, and then Aziraphale left to finish up their meal and Crowley changed out of his wet clothes. 

As they sat and drank wine and Aziraphale nibbled on the water crackers with brie, Crowley asked: “Have you ever been to a boy scout cookout?” 

“No, dear,” Aziraphale said after swallowing. “I can’t say that I have.” 

“We’re invited to one next month,” Crowley said.

“My, Crowley, what _did_ you get up to?”

Crowley grinned and told him.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally this was supposed to be 1000 words of Crowley having to ride the bus but then i was like what if 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 crowley made friends 😭
> 
> Again, happy birthday, pinafortuna! I hope this made you exhale harshly through your nose once or twice. And, everyone else, thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it too! 
> 
> ([Follow me on my professional fanfiction twitter](https://twitter.com/gigglesnortPro) or [just come kick it with me on my tumbly](https://gigglesnortbangdead.tumblr.com))


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